Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(21)

“Was there ever any trouble between the Alcotts and your husband? Other than with Liggert?” Savich asked. “Or any bad feelings between the Alcotts and Sparky Carroll and his family?”

“Certainly not, that’s absurd. My husband was friends with all of them, even Liggert, except on the nights he had to arrest him. As for Sparky Carroll, he was a nice boy, too. He had ambition, wanted to make the catering business his dad started even bigger than it was under Milt Carroll, his father, who was also a good friend of Kane’s. Milt started Eat Well and Prosper, they call it”—she rolled her eyes—“back in the eighties.” She looked down at her clasped hands again. “I knew Sparky’s mom, Rachael. They hardly ever let her cook a meal, she told me, and it bothered her, not being asked to cook for her family. She died two years ago, bless her soul.

“You know as well as I do that every town has its criminals, Agent Savich, its share of greed and violence. That’s what Kane’s job was about. But neither of those boys are criminals.”

“Do you know who some of your husband’s drinking buddies were, Mrs. Lewis?”

“I have no idea, Agent Savich.” Her voice was prim, and her chin went up in the air. Savich doubted anyone would be talking much more about Kane Lewis’s drinking in the Lewis home.





ALCOTT COMPOUND


PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Thursday, late afternoon

Savich and Sherlock stopped for pizza at Country Cousin’s in downtown Plackett. Everyone in the eatery was talking about Sparky Carroll and Deputy Kane Lewis. Savich doubted there had ever been a murder within living memory in this small town, let alone two. No one approached them, which was a relief, except the waitress, and it was obvious she was brimming with curiosity, but she held her tongue.

Thirty minutes later they were driving out of Plackett and into rolling hills thick with oak and pine trees. Sherlock opened her tablet. “There are three generations of Alcotts in residence, including grandma, who’s eighty-three and wheelchair-bound. She is Deliah Alcott’s mother-in-law. Deliah’s three sons and their families live with her, Brakey the youngest, then Jonah, and Liggert, the oldest. Liggert’s an odd name. I looked it up. The etymology’s obscure, but it may come from Serbia, go figure that.”

“Do we have anything else on the late Mr. Alcott’s hit-and-run accident six months ago?”

“Let me see. Okay, the police report put the accident about one hundred yards outside this—let’s call it a compound. Mr. Alcott was walking the family dog on the side of the highway when he was hit. The dog stood barking over him until someone stopped. He stayed guarding Mr. Alcott until the police arrived, and that would be Deputy Kane Lewis. As you already know, Deputy Lewis only found skid marks, but nothing to identify the vehicle or the driver.”

The Porsche’s GPS told them to turn right, and soon they were looking down a long gravel driveway at a distant cluster of houses. It was indeed a compound, with a larger two-story house set in the middle. On either side of the big house were single-story ranch-style houses. All three houses were set close to one another, as if privacy wasn’t a priority. All three were well maintained and backed up to an oak and pine forest.

Savich turned smoothly onto the driveway. Sherlock said as she took it all in, “Brakey must have given them all an earful. That was smart to tell him you’d let him go if he agreed to let us come speak to his family.”

“Hopefully his family goes along with it.” Savich stopped in front of the main house, which was charming, with a wraparound porch and a half-dozen chimneys that gave it a 1940s look, even though he knew it had been built in the past fifteen years. It was painted white, with dark brown trim. Flowers filled pots on the wide porch, hung from baskets from the porch beams. Trees crowded next to the wide expanse of lawn, and the smell of freshly mowed grass was heavy and sweet in the air. There were four children playing football in the front yard, all of them shouting, laughing, running around like berserkers. An old woman in a wheelchair sat on the porch, knitting in her lap, rocking slowly back and forth, watching them over the rims of her half-glasses. The children stopped playing abruptly and huddled together in a knot, staring at them.

A little boy called out, “Wow, that’s a beautiful car, mister!”

“It’s not just any car,” an older boy of about eight said. “That’s a race car.” Savich had to smile.

“Well, we’ve made a hit, Dillon,” Sherlock said, and patted the Porsche’s roof. “Would you kids like to come over and look at it?” It was lovely here for these kids, she thought, the smell of freshly mowed grass in the fresh spring air, no exhaust fumes anywhere. The kids gathered around. “I like red,” said a little girl wearing hand-me-down blue jeans she hadn’t grown into, rolled up to her ankles, a football pressed tight against her chest. “Are you here to visit grandma?”

Savich looked again at the old lady. He’d never seen a wheelchair that rocked before. She said nothing, only stared over at them, rocking back and forth. They walked right up to her, the kids following after Sherlock. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Special Agent Sherlock. We’re here to speak with the Alcott family.” Both he and Sherlock pulled out their creds.

She gave them a quick look, still rocking, and finally allowed a small lipless grin. “What a pretty boy and girl you are,” she said in a lovely drawl, sweet and slow as syrup. “Brakey said you’d be coming, said he’d made a deal with you. We let you talk to us and no jail for him. I bet you drove all the way from that wicked city of Washington here to make Brakey come clean. Why, that boy’s a sweetie, innocent as a lamb. You want to get the goods on him? Well, you won’t. He wouldn’t even play tackle football in high school, couldn’t bring himself to hurt anyone or anything. So you need to keep looking because your bad guy isn’t my Brakey. Tanny, get back, you don’t want these fancy law people to step on you.”